She pulled against his hold. “Come on,” she said, “we have to help.”
He kept his grip on her. “Do you think that is wise? We have to—”
Stormie shook her head. Wisdom has nothing to do with it. “We have to help, if we can. Now. I’ll see if that biker is okay, and you call 9-1-1.” She tapped her right foot, twice, then pressed it down a little behind her as if she were settling into her old starting blocks.
Come on, Frank. If we don’t help, no one will. No one ever helps.
“Very well,” Frank said. He held Stormie’s hand a second longer. “Be careful. No unnecessary risks.” He kissed her hand; she squeezed his, trusting him to move when she did.
She sprinted toward the dark shape on the street.
Chapter Two
The Problem with Theory
Sunday, 29 October 2034
Lunar Setup Mission II, Launch Day
The ride had been just as kick-ass as Van Richards had dreamed it would be: a bass rumble deeper than the physical vibrations that shook the vehicle around him, the feeling of being alternately bounced in random directions with bone-jarring force and being compressed into a vaguely human-shaped pancake, and then the whispery silence that settled around even the routine noises like fog around a streetlight.
Which would all be good if his stomach would cooperate.
They had all eschewed the anti-nausea meltaway strips, though he suspected a couple of the crew had used them secretly. In theory, the preflight meal should’ve been well digested by the time he reached orbit, and certainly too far along his gut now to threaten to come back. But that was the problem with theory: if you weren’t careful, it didn’t quite match up with reality.
The first hour had been fine: no worse than the parabolic flights in the Consortium’s retrofitted KC-10. But as the hours dragged by in maneuvers to raise the orbit while avoiding a multitude of satellite and space junk paths, it seemed that time might not be his friend.
He tried to concentrate on the fact that he’d won the first round of the puke pool. He’d picked Henry Crafts to blow first, and the little man had obliged before they’d completed three orbits. Van wasn’t sure what Henry had eaten, but it didn’t smell very appetizing now. At least Henry had caught almost everything in the barf bag.
“Thruster firing in thirty seconds,” Shay Nakamura said from his command seat. “Secure your shit.”
Van had strapped down his helmet as soon as he took it off, and now checked it again to be sure it was secure. He looked around and patted his acceleration couch and the outside of his suit, even though he hadn’t gotten anything out since they reached orbit. He fingered the pocket where he had his sick sack.
“Ten seconds,” Shay said. Van counted down himself, glad that Shay didn’t run the count over the intercom for every maneuver.
The thruster engine firings were gentle nudges compared to the launch, but without his helmet on they were louder than Van expected. Not ear-splitting, but resonant, like being inside a barrel while someone beat on it with a hammer, or threw rocks at it.
“Okay,” Shay said, “we’re in the clear. Next big boost is a little over an hour away, and we’ll be on track to catch up to the transfer rig. How’s everybody doing?”
Everyone reported in order of position or seniority. Oskar Hintener, the setup crew engineer, and Roy Chesterfield, the crew foreman, sounded fine. Jovelyn Nguyen, the number one grunt, said she was fine but didn’t sound so. Van grinned; he had his money on Jovie losing her breakfast next. Refusing to admit that he was fighting sickness himself, he tried to put some cheer in his report. “Richards here, A-OK.”
After Van, Henry grunted a reply, but Grace Teliopolous and Scooter Mast both sounded good. Van’s grin dropped a little; he needed Grace to get sick third if he was going to win the trifecta.
“So,” Shay said, “who’s up for some lunch?”
Van wasn’t the only one who groaned, but he slapped his thigh for giving in to the impulse.
From Shay’s voice, it was easy to hear that he was smiling like a teenager after his first French kiss. “Let’s see what we have … the tuna casserole is pretty good … maybe some sweet and sour pork—”
Van wrinkled his nose as wafts of the pork concoction reached him. On its own, it might smell vaguely like food, but mixed with what Henry contributed to the cabin it did not improve the atmosphere.
A minute or so later, Jovelyn retched into her bag. Van pumped his fist but said nothing: his teeth were clenched, and he was afraid to open his mouth.
“Who was that?” Shay asked. “And is your ECS secure?”
Van shook his head at the acronym: Emesis Containment System. As if a plastic-coated baggie could legitimately be considered a “system.”
A few seconds later, Jovelyn said, “It was me. And yes, you sick bastard.”
“That seems like a poor choice of words, Jovie,” Shay said, “and checking the pool, it looks like Van picked both the win and the place. Who do you have for the show, Van?”
Van feigned disinterest. “Hmmm?” As the odor of Jovelyn’s breakfast mixed with Henry’s and with Shay’s lunch, Van found himself clawing at his pocket to retrieve his bag.
“Cat got your tongue, Richards? Sound off, Airman!”
Van swallowed, and immediately regretted it. “I bet on Grace to show.”
“In your dreams, Van,” Grace said. “My money’s on you.”
“Now, play nice, children,” Shay said. “I’ll admit to you that Oskar is looking a little peaked up here. He may blow any minute. You had a very traditional breakfast, didn’t you, Oskar? Western omelet, bacon, hash browns?”
Van tried to shut out Shay’s voice, but was no more successful than he was at blocking out the smells. The cabin had a faint air that he could not identify … something like corned beef hash, if it had been fermented in malt vinegar. Van laid his hand on his stomach, but the layers of pressure suit stripped all comfort from the gesture.
Oskar’s laugh cut through Van’s concentrated aloofness. “No, sir, nothing like that,” the engineer said. “Today I had an English breakfast: baked beans, tomato slices—”
Van’s stomach turned one notch too far, and he didn’t hear what else Oskar listed. As his system emptied what little it had in it, he heard a good bit more cheering than he appreciated.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said a moment later. “Congratulations, Grace. Shay, tell the designers that they need better air scrubbers on these things.”
“They sure do now,” said Grace.
Shay laughed. “I suppose it would help if we actually turned the filtration system on.”
Van laid his head back. He licked his lips and grimaced at the aftertaste. “Go ahead, have your fun. At least I won the exacta.”
“Okay, gang,” Shay said, in as smooth a transition to “command mode” as Van had ever heard, “time to start getting serious. We’ve got a long way to go and a lot of work to do when we get there.”
More than we should. The previous setup team hadn’t so much left a “punch list” of things to fix as they’d left a lot of their own tasks undone. But that was okay for Van: it was exactly what he’d signed up for. He’d dreamed of this day for as long as he could remember, and after this three-month mission he had his sights set on a long-term colony stint with Barbara at his side. It wouldn’t matter what job they had for him, either; he’d take the grubbiest duty they had to offer. If they only gave him a wrench to turn, he’d be happy.
Van brought his attention back to Shay.
“—so settle down, enjoy the ride, and we’ll be back on solid ground before you know it.”
Van tried closing his eyes, but that made him feel worse, so he focused on the blank flex display in front of him. He would eventually get used to freefall, but for now he was glad their flight profile was as direct an insertion as possible so they wouldn’t have to screw around with a stop at the Clarke station.
At the moment, “before you know it” couldn
’t come soon enough.
Chapter Three
Some Barbaric Ritual
Sunday, 29 October 2034
Stormie marked fluids draining away from the smashed front end of the minivan—a green Toyota hybrid. The liquid stained the sidewalk and formed a little puddle at the base of the curb. She didn’t see any other obvious dangers: no fires or other hazards. People were starting to climb out of the van—parents and one, two, three children. They were going to be okay.
Stormie knelt by the biker. Long, shiny, coal-black hair fanned out from underneath the woman’s helmet. Collision avoidance systems and automatic brakes in the other vehicles must surely have protected their passengers, but she had had no such defenses.
Recollection pushed at Stormie’s brain and pulled at her guts. For an instant she was a child again, in the early days of summer heat, deep in the concrete-and-asphalt of Charleston where the harbor breeze never reached. Involuntary tears formed and burst from her eyes before she seized control. She had no time for that.
The woman—girl?—lay on her left arm; her legs were set as if she were sleeping and had dreamed of running. She lay in a shiny puddle of urine and blood. Tanned and torn skin showed through abrasions on her pants and flimsy windbreaker—no one had taught this girl about motorcycle leathers, or she hadn’t had sense enough to listen. At least she’d worn a helmet; it was dented and the faceplate was badly scratched.
“Excuse me!” Stormie called toward the minivan. A small crowd had gathered there, and some of them started toward her. “Do you have any gloves in your van?” That was probably too much to hope for; even bags over her hands would keep her away from the blood. “Or plastic bags?”
“Huh?” The father, possibly still dazed from the collision, shook his head quickly and violently the way a cat does when you blow in its ears. The airbags inflating may have damaged his hearing. “What?”
“Plastic bags. Do you have any?”
He put his right hand to his ear and held up his left for an instant, but he nodded. “I’ll check.” He headed back to the van, a little wobbly but quickly.
Stormie pulled off Frank’s coat and dropped it behind her. She touched the girl’s throat, under the helmet, and found a pulse. She counted three beats before, with the new angle of light, she realized the puddle of blood under the girl’s hips was becoming a pool.
Possibilities flew through Stormie’s mind like butterflies, and it took her a second to catch and examine them. They were ugly.
She felt the back of the girl’s neck, gently. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the skin under her fingers, under her palm, trying to block out other sensations at least for a moment. She knew she couldn’t detect a mild injury, and maybe not a gross one, but it was important to try. She satisfied herself—or maybe just convinced herself—that the rider’s neck wasn’t broken.
Supporting the girl’s neck and head, Stormie rolled her onto her back. She didn’t remove the helmet, but pulled open the faceplate. The girl looked Indian, with heavy dark brows that matched her dark hair, and very pretty. Her left arm resembled ground chuck and was broken in at least two places. Stormie took its condition in with a glance: the blood was coming from lower down.
A jagged tip of the girl’s right femur stuck out from her inner thigh. Bright red blood erupted from the wound, subsided, and erupted again with each heartbeat.
Stormie pondered for two of the woman’s visible heartbeats. She needed to stop the bleeding, but the bone was a problem: as long as it protruded, the wound would stay open. She couldn’t straighten the girl’s leg, to pull the bone back in, and apply pressure to the wound all on her own.
The man from the Toyota wasn’t back yet, but Stormie couldn’t hesitate. He might be back any second, he might never come back, or he might come back empty-handed, but the girl’s face had already lost some color. Stormie didn’t have time to wait for gloves or bags, and couldn’t debate the issue any more: the pool of blood was spreading. But she still needed help.
A few more people had wandered over from the minivan, mostly silent but some whispering to one another or into the air, those with phone earpieces. A few had whipped out microcams, and Stormie ground her teeth at them. Sirens in the distance grew louder, but slowly.
Stormie knew that she should single out whomever she wanted to help her: put the onus on them personally in order to get them out of bystander paralysis. She made eye contact with one man who didn’t appear preoccupied with commenting on the scene. He was as likely a candidate as any.
“You!” she said. The man looked around to see if anyone else acknowledged her, though he must know she meant him. He looked back again. “Yes, sir, you. We need your help.”
He took a small step forward, about half what his normal stride would’ve been. He wasn’t a tall man, but he bent down and said, “With what?”
If he’d been within arm’s reach, Stormie would’ve grabbed him—instead she worked her way down the woman’s body from the shoulders, trying as best she could to palpate her shoulders, arms, and rib cage for additional injuries. “I need you to grab this girl’s right foot,” Stormie said. “First, check to make sure her lower legs aren’t injured, then when I tell you to you’ll pull her foot gently while I put pressure on this wound.” The thought of shock occurred to her; the girl had certainly lost enough blood already for shock to be an issue. “Once that’s done, roll up your jacket and put it under her feet.”
“No way,” the man said. He shuffled back a little. “This is real leather.”
“Well, if she dies from shock and blood loss you can be real proud of your damn leather jacket. Get the hell out of the way.” Stormie picked up Frank’s coat and tossed it toward the girl’s feet. “You, ma’am! Will you help? We need to set this leg as best we can, and then we need to keep her warm. Thank you. That’s right … thank you very much.”
Stormie counted to three and the helpful woman pulled. The jagged stub of bone receded into the girl’s leg. Her blood was warm and gushed against Stormie’s bare palm as she got her hand over it.
Stormie kept pressure on the wounded leg. The woman helping her elevated the biker’s other leg and put Frank’s coat under her foot. Stormie hoped having only one leg raised would be enough to stave off shock.
She put more pressure on the wound, willing it to stay closed under her hand. She glanced down at herself and almost laughed at the realization that she was covered in a stranger’s blood in the middle of Cabrillo Boulevard: not at all how she had expected this day to end. But she didn’t afford herself the luxury of even that release of tension. Loss of blood had left the girl very pale now.
Without prompting, another man from the crowd laid his coat over the injured girl. Something in Stormie’s perception changed and the chill breeze on her bare arms cut through the heat within her body. At least the girl had on a jacket, even if it wasn’t leather. Hopefully the pavement wasn’t too cold, or it would leach too much heat from her body. And hopefully the ambulance would show up soon.
Stormie looked around. Frank had extracted a boy maybe eight or ten years old from one of the cars. He was up the street a little, kneeling next to the boy who sat on the curb and stared, wide-eyed, at Stormie, at the prone woman, at the blood.
Without much else to do at the moment, Stormie considered how this scene would be different for her and Frank once they were in place on the Moon. Vehicle collisions would be rare, and a good thing because response would be much harder. With all of them in pressure suits, Stormie would be compressing suit layers into the girl’s wound; the fabric would almost certainly be torn and she would be relying on clamping baffles in the suit to limit oxygen loss, and probably calling for duct tape instead of a bystander’s jacket. Inside her own suit, she’d smell … what, her own sweat, instead of antifreeze and fuel? She wondered if she would’ve been able to see the girl’s pallor through her helmet. If the girl went shocky, Stormie could adjust her suit’s heat exchanger. And she would have access to
the suit’s monitors to check the girl’s vital signs.
The blood flow slowed, but the girl’s color was too pale. Stormie tried to find the pressure point on the inside of the girl’s thigh, to compress the femoral artery and slow the flow to her leg; she didn’t even know if it would work, with the leg so badly broken. She might be doing more damage, tearing tissues deep inside, but she had to try—
She had to try. Had to. Had to make up for not being able to save Erick when he drowned, for not being able to save her mother when she lay broken and bleeding in the gutter under the hot Carolina sun. Waves of heat from the pavement, waves of tears in her eyes—tears in her eyes now, that she blinked away in embarrassed fury. She had to try.
“Come on,” Stormie said through half-gritted teeth, pushing down harder on the girl’s flesh. A siren wound down and she realized she hadn’t even heard it approach. She glanced around.
A fire truck threaded its way through the traffic and as soon as its wheels stopped responders swarmed out of it like ants from an anthill. Frank ran to one of the firemen and gestured toward the old Nissan, near the curb where the young boy still sat.
Stormie looked back down at the girl. Her own heart seemed to slow within her chest, to have trouble pumping blood that suddenly thickened and chilled. Hope faded that the rider hadn’t lost too much blood, that anyone would be able to save her.
Motion around her, next to her. A uniform-clad young man with a big red-and-white tackle box—not a fireman—leaned in, poking and prodding her patient. Another joined him, his expert hands dislodging Stormie’s inexpert ones and with practiced motions applying a tournipack to the girl’s shattered leg.
Hands on her shoulder, pulling her back. She sat back on her heels, clasping her sticky hands together, and Frank knelt beside her. “You did well, dear,” he said. He put one hand on her back and with his other grasped both of hers. She was still as a statue, watching the EMTs work.
One of them tapped his earpiece and began calling for a life-flight. The other muttered, “Don’t know where they’re going to land,” but kept working.
Walking on the Sea of Clouds Page 2